Shattered Windows Equal Broken Glass
by Lykosdracos
Summary: To replace the SW fanfic i deleted. Mort Rainey seems to have caved under Shooter's pressure. With the appearace of an old friend will he be able to make a comeback? Or will he sacrifice all to keep her safe?
1. Mort Rainey

Broken Windows equal Shattered Glass   
Chapter 1  
  
Authors Note: I now own Secret Window on DVD. Lol. So I've decided to delete the old story and write a new one. I really don't like the old one anymore, it had it's moments, but for the most part... think of it this way. It was sinking in quicksand and although I tried to save it, I wasn't willing to dive in to get it back.  
  
Authors Note 2: I hope you think this one's better and that it has possible potential as a story. No more post office girl, I saw her again in the movie and wow, totally not what I remembered her as. Lol.  
  
It all started with a hat, a simple black hat that reminded him of a dairy farmer from Mississippi that he had once seen on a book signing tour. Amy had been with him, one of the few times she had ever accompanied him anywhere other than Maine. Putting the hat on he had felt different, like seeing the world in black and white. Right and wrong, there was no in between or fine print at the end to spell out a person's failures.  
  
He had made it out to be a joke, of course, it was to him then too. Ha, ha, laugh at the crazy writer, right? Wait, but he wasn't crazy then... or maybe he was. After all it would take someone not completely sane to think the thoughts he had at any rate.  
  
But then the question came... was anyone really normal? Wasn't that the issue of the year, defining normality. He had loved Amy, and a part of him still did, but wasn't that in the vows he took? To love, honor, cherish... till death do they part. Rather her death in this case, did the vows say anything about... oh perhaps, the groom murdering the bride?  
  
He felt he was well justified. He honored her, he did every morning as he watered the garden in her name. He even did her, and Ted now that he thought about it, a service. Now they wouldn't ever be parted, right comfy they were, and would remain. Forever.  
  
If he took the time to think about it, he supposed that there had always been something wrong with him. His parents thought so anyway, he was too quiet, he didn't like to be around other people they said. Even as a child he often spent time alone drawing pictures and walking around the countryside of Pennsylvania.  
  
Mort didn't remember much of school from after fifth grade, just notebooks and binders full of his stories. School wasn't a place to learn, it was another place to write. A change of scenery was needed when something was to be written otherwise life would stay monotonous and how would he ever get anywhere?  
  
His grades suffered and as much as his parents threatened, they took the laptop from his room so he wrote on notebook paper with pen and pencil. They took the notebooks and he would write on anything he could find, he kept them all together and transferred it back to regular paper when he got to school.  
  
None of the other kids interested him, they all led remarkably boring lives. So did he for that matter, but he wrote about wondrous places where things happened to his characters on a regular basis.  
  
Windows. Windows had never been a good subject to bring up around him. There was a major competition that the school had tried to participate in. One of the model high-schools in the county, until a teacher took away his paper while reprimanding him to pay attention.  
  
His books crashed through two strong windows of the classroom, a pen was thrown and it lodged itself in the wall near her head, he had cornered her against the side of the classroom and demanded she give his binder back before anyone had time to do more than blink in astonishment.  
  
Trembling and fearful she did as he requested and when the contest judges heard about it they resigned their attention elsewhere. The school had lost a ten thousand dollar raise because of him.  
  
Mort hadn't cared, the woman had no right to touch what was his and after packing up his things he calmly had left the classroom with no intention of ever going back. That had been the senior year of high-school for him, and as a result his family moved to Lake Tashmore, Maine for a change of pace in hopes of changing their son.  
  
He sent in one of his stories to a small publishing company and received his first ever rejection letter. That hadn't bothered him because he knew there were other opportunities out there. He revised, edited, and sent his story to another, bigger, company. They accepted it and he got his first advance within a few days.  
  
Over the next few months he had his book published with the name Morton Rainey in bold under the title 'Silhouetted Light.' Everything changed after that, he became a well known author and the teenager from Pennsylvania was forgotten in lieu of the new talented, sophisticated, yet still innocently 'country' man from Maine.  
  
Mort Rainey leaned his head back against his new desk office chair and grinned at his recent addition to 'Sowing Season.' Publishers had loved his editing and the new ending, they clamored for a sequel to find out exactly what happened to Todd Downey.  
  
He was more than happy to oblige, he too was curious as to what was going to happen to him. Nothing stayed perfect forever because perfection was just an illusion. The ending was very good... for now, but he had to equal that with another one that would be even better.  
  
Mort Rainey, or John Shooter as he now preferred to be called, was glad to finally be free of all the restrictions society had placed on him. It had taken him thirty some years to finally shed all the ties that bound him to what he 'should' do and what 'should' be done.  
  
He lived alone and liked it that way he could very well do what he wanted now. To hell with everyone else, and that's where they'd end up if they involved themselves in what didn't concern them. Morton was still there somewhere under the surface, but John had made sure that anyone and everyone who cared about the poor country kid was obliterated.  
  
Ken Karsch was gone, Tom Greenleaf was dead too, Amy and Ted... well, it was pretty obvious what had happened to them. It was a thrill everytime he thought about one of his readers picking up Sowing Season and thinking that the plot and characters were fictitious. They would marvel at the genius of the story, no he wasn't trying to be boastful, not knowing that what they were admiring had really happened.  
  
He rubbed his jaw in slight annoyance, everything that needed to be straightened out was. The braces had just come off yesterday, which explained the pain in his jaw. The weights were safely stored away now that he had lost the twenty pounds he wanted too. He was the correct weight, frame, and while that couldn't be said for his state of mind, everything he had control over was... well, controlled.  
  
John had done everything possible to ensure his continued existence and would do whatever was needed to stay on top of things. Mort was too weak-minded, in his opinion, to do anything other than mope around and refuse perfectly good cigarettes. He cared too much about the woman Amy, she had gone off with another man and was punished accordingly.  
  
Nope. John folded his arms across his chest and sighed deeply. Nothing could shatter what he had going for him now. With that thought still in his mind the green phone sitting on his table in the living room began to ring.  
  
"What in tarnation!" he muttered brushing off stray ashes on his black pants, he thought he had unplugged the thing before he started to write. He bounded down the stairs and sat on the brown upholstered couch while picking up the receiver.  
  
It was a major disturbance and he had always made sure to unplug the phone jack before turning on his computer. There was nothing more irritating than a phone that wouldn't stop ringing just as the ideas started to circulate. After the incessant chatter stopped the ideas would too leaving him with nothing but a nearly blank screen and horrible writing.  
  
"H'lo?" he asked allowing the annoyance to make itself known in his voice.  
  
"Don't you dare speak to me in the condescending tone, Mort Rainey." He heard a feminine voice tease on the other end, "I've tried calling you for days, you can't tell me that you've been writing all this time."  
  
"Yeah, I have been actually." John replied, "Sorry 'bout the phone and all, darlin' but what did you expect? You've heard about the new story, I'd imagine."  
  
"Jeez, you must be in major writing mode to have such an accent." He heard her chuckle, "But yeah, I wanted to call and congratulate you on that. Getting over... well, anyway, it's good to see that you've finally stepped out of the closet."  
  
"Stepped out and burned it down." He laughed, "I plumb forgot that you were getting back from that trip to Europe. How was it?"  
  
"Great! I got so many pictures developed and the magazine's going to pay me for nearly all of them! Can you believe it! There must be hundreds of shots here and they want them all!"  
  
Annmarie 'Willow' Tosiath had been his friend now for- with sinking heart he realized that she would notice the drastic change Mort had undergone since she left. Within a few days she would hear the rumors and gossip around town and come searching him out for answers. He couldn't have that happening, but he wouldn't be able to kill her either.  
  
She was the one who had been there for him throughout whatever happened in his life, he never minded when she called or stopped by suddenly no matter what he was doing. There was always time to spend with her, and he might have even proposed had she not had a boyfriend and Amy been his wife.  
  
"I'm really very happy for you, Annie." He sighed, "Can I call you back in a little while though? Some loose ends I need to tie up."  
  
"Sure, I'll be here." He could almost hear her smile, "Don't unplug the phone, promise?"  
  
"Alright." He hated the sick, surging feeling in his stomach. All he wanted to do was get out, away from the cabin, and past everything that wanted to bring Mort back! He had all the memories and Annie wasn't the type to leave things be. He would do what needed to be done though, even if more of his sanity was put to the test.  
  
Authors Note 3: I watched the DVD twice now and there's a part in the movie, if you watch it with Closed Captioning on, where they talk about a school and broken windows or something. I had to pause the DVD to write this and I don't know if I got it all right. Something about sisters or whatever, but I took it and ran with it... this is the result. Lol. 


	2. Annie's Promise

Shattered Windows Equal Broken Glass

Chapter 2

Annie hung up the phone grinning ruefully, it was just like him to isolate himself up in that cabin for days. No one saw hide or hair of him until someone worked up courage enough to knock on the door. Most often than not it was her who braved the lions den, but she had to admit that he looked awfully cute with his hair all in mussed disarray.

She knew that when he wrote he'd often forget to eat, drink, shave, or check his mail. That was part of the reason he stayed so lean, because his diet consisted mainly of Doritos, Mountain Dew, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or a shot of Jack Daniels.

Cold-cuts and real meat were dangerous to have around him, mild and anything that spoiled too easily as well because Mort didn't take the time to check expiration dates. It wasn't that she lived with him to know these things, but she had been his friend for a good twelve years and had kept in touch with him whenever she traveled.

His mother and father had passed on a few years ago and his sister moved to California with her fiancé. She would be about forty-two now and happily married with two children, or so Mort had told her on one of their long conversations.

No one was surprised when he bought the cabin in the woods and sold the old one that had belonged to his family. In fact they all refrained from mentioning anything about tearing it down because they knew that one day it would be his.

She'd heard stories of how he used to climb through the broken window shafts and hide away from people. She remembered his notebook of plans for the cabin, all of which had come to be. Just as she had, this was the one plce she could honestly call home.

Speaking of which, checking her frige and freezer she realized there was nothing to be found. A trip into town was needed in order to get the necessary items if she were to stay. It would be awhile before her next assignment, she had yet to meet with her boss to get her pictures fully appraised.

While they had said they liked them, some photos turned out to be not what was on the negatives. The lighting was bad or it just wasn't what they had expected, there was a high probability that this was exactly what they were looking for this time and Annie was through the roof about it. This was her big chance to become the world-renowned photographer she always wanted to be.

It wasn't that she craved the publicity, no not that, it was the freedom that drew her. Instead of filming weddings and church ceremonies she would finally be able to travel to exotic places and stand on the thinning ice of Alaska and take a picture of the sunrise, or the sweltering deserts to film a rare type of rattlesnake.

Anything was preferable to the ordinary, everyday, boring jobs she had to take. The trip to Europe had been to take pictures of Stonehenge. No tourists were allowed on the monumental site anymore because some fuck-mooks had carved their names into the rock. 

Historians were afraid that in a few years it would be nothing but rubble, so in effect the commissioners had made it a look-only site. Annie had tried to capture the magic left, to let people see the fog that rolled in at dusk and dawn, so that they could experience the vibrating feel in the air, hear the wind whistling through the great stone columns.

She wanted them to feel the great king standing next to them and have their knees go weak at his power. Anything and everything, it was all captured on sixteen rolls of film that sat in her boss' office at this very moment.

With that thought she pulled into the parking lot outside of where everyone stopped in to get their morning cup of coffee. Everyone in the diner-convenience store turned around to stare at her before returning to what they were doing.

Being a photographer she didn't miss the former hostile looks aimed in her direction before they realized she wasn't a stranger, or enemy. What had them all so afraid?

"Hey, all." She said by means of breaking the ice, there was no real need too, many of these people she had known from childhood. Marge Intire sat sipping an espresso at the counter next to Jimmy Dane drinking his cup of coffee pure black strong enough to strip paint. Isabelle was manning the counter and David was shelving shaving cream.

"Hi." Jimmy replied listlessly, there was definitely something not right going on.

"What did I miss? Who died?" she joked.

"It's nor smart of you to continue friendship with Morton Rainey." Isabelle warned shaking a dishrag at Annie to emphasize her words.

"Whoa, when did Mort become Morton?" Annie asked smothering a laugh, "And why not? I've known him since they moved here… what happened while I was gone?"

"Um, well…" everyone glanced around nervously seemingly anywhere except at her.

"Come on, just say it already." She said wanting to hear what ridiculous notion they had thought of now.

"He's not right in the head." Isabelle whispered.

"Mort's a writer." Annie grinned, "None of them are."

"This isn't time for any of your jokes." The town warden walked in and folded his arms authoritatively. "We just have to gather evidence before we put hi away for good. In jail or an institution, either one fits for'i'm."

"I don't believe this." Annie said scornfully, "All these rumors, have any of you been up to speak with him? Do you even know the whole story?"

"There's nothing that needs to _be_ known!" choked Marge on her bagel, "He's stark raving mad, he stays away from us only at the sheriff's request. Who knows what he'd do? Kill us all in our beds like his wife, Tom Greenleaf, that New Yorker fellow…"

Hearing that Tom Greenleaf was dead came to no surprise to Annie, they had all been expecting it to happen at some time or another. The poor man had had arthritis, heart problems, and drove a broken-down truck that everyone secretly hoped would crash and set the him out of his misery. The only thing he had keeping him alive was a twenty year old cat that was hanging onto life for Tom. But the fact they thought Mort had killed him? Now _that_ was an insane thought.

"Amy's dead?" Annie asked incredulously though she couldn't work up enough compassion to actually feel sorry for the bitch, she knew that Mort would be hurting because of it and that was reason enough for her. Amy had put him through hell and a half over the course of their marriage, "How did that really happen?"

"Havent you been listening?" muttered Marge, "Mort's gone and killed her!"

"Bullshit." Annie scoffed violet-gray eyes flashing, "I'll prove you all wrong, you'll see." And with that she threw down money for her purchases, swept past the sheriff, and was gone.

"She'll be next." Said David sighing, "I can feel it, that bastard'll kill her too."

"Well then we'll have our proof." The sheriff said satisfactorily, "And he'll be taken care of once and for all."

**RING…… RING……**

"Hello?"

Annie was glad to hear his voice was back to normal again, the stupidity and close-mindedness of the community astounded her sometimes. They wouldn't read anything with the word witch in it, which meant that Harry Potter was strictly forbidden. She personally really liked that book series and couldn't find anything 'occultic' in it at all.

"Hey, glad to have you taking a break." She finished putting the groceries away, "What else are ya up too?"

"Nothing much." She heard the clatter of keys stop and wondered if he had moved the phone up to the loft.

"Pardon?" she didn't hear what he had said after that because static blocked his voice out for a few seconds.

"Ah said, why don't you come over for awhile." The southern accent was back again and she wondered what kind of story he was writing this time.

"Alight, sure." She agreed, it would give her a chance to do some catching up and to form a few opinions of her own. "I'll be right over."

"Mort?" she stared wide-eyed at the man standing in front of her. She had several mind images of what he might look like on the 5-minute car ride over, but none of them even slightly resembled the Mort that was holding the door open for her.

"Annie." He accepted her hug, stomach churning in apprehension he felt the screwdriver move in his pocket.

"Was it laundry day or something?" he was clean shaven, his hair was tamed into place, and a red cardigan sweater-vest went over a plaid shirt. He wore perfectly creased khaki pants and when he smiled… his teeth were poster-perfect straight.

This was a far cry from when he had dressed up, even then he managed to still look laid back and relaxed. This was straight-laced, proper, and fit his accent perfectly. Southern gentleman to the core, it gave her true admiration to how far he would go to give life to his characters.

She had seen him sword-fight an imaginary foe in the loft near his computer, and she had ruler-dueled him once so he could get a true feel for what it felt like. He would have enrolled in a real fencing club, but there was nothing like that anywhere near Tashmore Lake.

Mort wrote because he liked too not because it was another profession, it was another reason she respected him so much. During the divorce with Amy he had been closed and withdrawn unable to write a decent sentence, or so he thought. She saw nothing wrong with what he wrote, but he shook his head and deleted pages of work without hesitating.

"What are you talkin' about?" he drawled, "is it bad t'look neat for a change instead of sloppy and _casual_?" Mort spoke the last word as if it were a curse, and she was beginning to wonder if maybe he hadn't been working too hard.

"Okay, right…" he gestured for her to enter the cabin and Annie received another shock when she saw the inside. The floors were polished, the windows were sparkling, he had fixed the screen door so it didn't creak anymore, and the porch was freshly painted and repaired.

She had known Mrs. Garvey came once a week to clean, but this went above and beyond what any cleaning lady could accomplish. Everything was as she remembered it to be, but it was spruced up, the same but different in it's own way. A little spooky to say the least, she could recall dozens of times she came over just to sit on the couch with him and go over story plots, or picture negatives, even a new story that came out that he wanted her to see.

"What is that?" she spotted an old black hat with a wide brim sitting on the coffee table near the brown couch.

"It's mine." John corrected himself, "It's _a hat of_ mine."

"Cool." She picked it up and touched the brim, there was a thin layer of dust on it and when she turned it over a silk thread, almost like that of corn, fell onto her black shirt. John closed the door behind them and gently took the hat from her.

Putting it on he smiled and looked over the top rim of his glasses, "You like?"

"It suits you." She agreed, and it did. Mysteriously obscure it somehow managed to change his eyes to a darker shade and make his skin a more golden tan color. He had a strange little smirk on his face that made her feel like smiling and oddly also like kissing him. What was she thinking! A man just getting over his wife's death, although he seemed to be handling it pretty well, and here she was wondering if she looked alright.

He thought she looked just fine, better than last time in fact. Her long black hair was wavy from the cold and curled slightly on the ends. It didn't give her a Marsha Brady effect, rather a just-got-out-of-the-shower look, which he didn't really want to dwell on at the moment. Her black jeans were faded around the knees and down to where the hem reached the black of her polished yet travel-worn boots.

The hem on the back was ragged and torn, these were obviously a favored pair as was the loosely fitting shirt she wore with a silver pendant of a spade hanging from her throat. Her eyes were outlined in a light purple, which brought out the amethyst tints in her expressive eyes, and outlined black underneath to bring them out even more.

As he took the hat off the screwdriver fell out of his pocket, and he fumbled to pick it up before she saw. It was a futile effort on his part because she noticed, and putting her hand through a belt loop of her pants, she tipped her head slightly to the side and asked,

"Planning a murder scene, are you?"

"What?" he blinked owlishly at her the coincidence striking too close to home, "What is it you just said?"

"The screwdriver, I can just imagine you using it in a story of yours, maybe to kill off an offending… what's wrong, are you alright? You look so pale…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." It must have really rattled him for the accent to slip again. "I was just- fixing up some things around the house. Thanks though, for the, um, idea. Right… right."

"Maybe you oughta lay down, you really don't look like yourself." She walked with him over to the couch and sat across from him on an upholstered chair while he sank down onto the comfortable cushions that contoured to his body.

"Funny, innit?" he ran his hand through his hair messing it up back to it's former appearance, "One man trying to be another man trying to go back to being himself wondering if it's even possible anymore."

"Its always possible." she reassured him handing him another pillow, "Always."

"I'm not so sure." he replied looking up at her through tortured brown eyes. "What if its not?"

"I'll make it so it is." she promised, "Get some sleep, when's the last time you did?"

He thought about it for a moment, "I cant remember, but then I dont remember a lot lately."

"Well lets hope you remember this." she picked up the copy of Sowing Season on his coffee table next to Hunter S. Thompson's 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.' As he drifted off to sleep she began to read.


	3. Twenty shots

Chapter 3   
Authors Note: Thank you SO much to all the reviewers so far! Interesting bit of information to those of you who can rent, buy, or have the DVD. When Mort goes to the bookshelf to take 'Everybody Drops the Dime' to compare it with 'Sowing Season,' if you look really hard or pause the DVD on the shot of the bookshelf... there's a copy of 'The Rum Diary' by Hunter S. Thompson.  
  
Authors Note 2: The only reason I discovered this was because I'm a real fact-fanatic when it comes to movies. I pause the movie about sixty times to either write a quote (always use CC) or write what the layout of a room looks like, I wanted the exact books that were on that shelf. The items that were in Mort's desk, the wallpaper in his bedroom, it all has to be here down to the tarnishing on the door handle or the slivers on the shovel handle.  
  
_It was broad daylight and someone was walking in circles around his house. As he drove closer he noticed that it was a woman with light brown hair, dressed in a black formal skirt and a button-down jade colored shirt. He instantly remembered Alaina, a character from his recent story that had been published only a few months ago. She had worn the same thing down to the black stiletto pumps on her feet and silver dangling star earrings in her ears.  
  
The woman disappeared around the side of the house again and Mort closed the door of his car quietly so he would be able to observe more. Amy wasn't home yet or she would have freaked out over the whole situation. His beautiful house, his beautiful wife, things couldn't have been better.  
  
"Robert!!" he saw the woman hurl herself at him and barely kept them from falling to the pavement. "I knew you'd find me again, just like you promised." This was definitely a little eerie, that was the exact phrase from his book. She had to be one of those rabid fans Ken was always talking about, one who was a little over the edge, to be sure, but nothing dangerous so far... all he had to do was play the game.  
  
"Yes, just as I promised, love." He took her hand and led her up to the door of the house. It was a little difficult remembering exactly what he had wrote as it had been at least a year since he'd last had to read it.  
  
"Aren't you going to carry me across? Like you did on our wedding day?" she pouted and held out her arms. Mort was just thankful that she was a rather petite woman and not more than one hundred and ten pounds at most.  
  
He set her down gently and did his best to smile warmly. "Home sweet home, just as I always wanted for you."  
  
The phone rang and Mort winced hoping that she wouldn't snap and turn violent, it was obvious that she was up to improvisation because she settled herself delicately on one of their living room chairs and winked seductively, "I'll wait for you... don't be long, dear."  
  
Mort hurried out of the room and into his study making sure to close the door behind him. It was Ken Kelsch, his literary agent, and he gulped in deep breaths to calm his nerves before saying hello.  
  
"Mort, good I caught you, listen, I'm on my way over... I have some disclaimers I need you to fill out for me-"  
  
"Ken, good, I need you to accelerate just a wee bit more, alright? The shit's really hit the fan this time, there's a woman here dressed and acting like a character from my book. I'm going to really freak out here, I don't know what to do!"  
  
"First you need to calm down, man." Ken instructed, "I've dealt with things like this loads of times. Just be the perfect gentleman, agree with her, smile, don't make any sudden movements, and try to keep her occupied until I get there. Can you do that?"  
  
"I sure as hell hope so." Mort glanced at the door expecting her to break it down or have it crashing open.  
  
"So do I. Be there in about five minutes." Ken hung up and Mort stared helplessly at the phone before replacing the receiver with panic rising in the back of his throat. He opened the door carefully and looked both ways in the hallway. She must still be in the living room then, that was good, very good.  
  
When he got there, however, she was no longer sitting in the chair. She was sprawled out along the couch with her blouse nearly undone and her lipstick reapplied so that it was bright red against her pale complexion.  
  
"It feels like I've been waiting ages, Rob." She sighed tipping her head back so that her hair fell in waves down upon her back, "Don't you feel the same?"  
  
Now this had gone a little too far, if Amy were to walk through the door before Ken there was no way he'd be able to explain. Though he had always been good at making up stories and lying when the occasion called for it, he could never lead Amy on, nor did he think she would believe the truth this time.  
  
"Umm..." he said stalling for time, it had been three minutes already. Where the hell was Ken?  
  
"Honey?" she got up from the couch and crossed the room towards him, "What's a matter? It'll be just like it's always been..."  
  
"No, no it won't." Mort said firmly stopping her from completely undressing, "I'm not who you think I am." He took a different tactic trying this time to snap her out of the delusion rather than pandering to it.  
  
"That's true." she purred, "You're even better than before, Robert. More on- the-edge this time."  
  
"My name's not Robert, it's Mort. Morton Rainey, author of 'Fates Reunion.' Not Robert, or Rob; Mort."  
  
"What are you saying? Is this some kind of joke?" her blue eyes flashed dangerously, "If it is, it isn't funny!"  
  
"I agree, it's not funny at all." He kept out of her reach as she backed him towards the front door.  
  
"You _are_ Rob, I won't have it any other way." She persisted determinedly, "I don't care what you say."  
  
"No, but I do, lady. He pays me a great deal of money to save his ass from situations like this. It'd be a shame to loose such a great contributor." Ken burst in through the door, but then he froze, in fact the whole room had become suddenly still.  
  
Alaina transformed into Shooter who held a screwdriver in his hand, "I'm going to cut you outta me."  
  
"Ah! N-no! Get-!"  
  
_"Mort!" Annie knelt down on the floor next to him, he had fallen off the couch in the middle of screaming the word no. "Are you alright?"  
  
"No, I don't know, I think so." The dream had all been real up to the end of it. There had been a woman who pretended to be one of his book characters in order to escape her everyday life, except Ken had crashed through the door and restrained her before she could hit him.  
  
Mort put a shaking hand to his head and felt the cold perspiration dotted on his forehead. Dreams like these were why he hadn't been sleeping lately, real events from the past started and then Shooter made an appearance in the end with a new threat. He didn't know what was reality and what was made up anymore, always feeling like he was scrambling for a foothold on the edge of the proverbial cliff hadn't helped his paranoia any.  
  
"Mort? Answer me." He looked into Annie's green eyes and felt sanity return slowly like sails unfurling in the wind.  
  
"What do you want to know?" he asked not willing to break eye-contact.  
  
"I want to know what's been going on lately, why you're so jumpy all of a sudden, how come you aren't sleeping, and just what exactly happened to Amy. That's what I aim to find out."  
  
"Good goals."  
  
"I'm a high expectations kinda gal." She sarced helping him to his feet, "Now c'mon, you look like you could use something a little stronger than water."  
  
"I don't have anything here." Mort muttered following her through the house, he had drank his last bottle of Jack Daniel's months ago.  
  
"Besides Mountain Dew?" she grinned, "I know. That's why we're going to my house."  
  
He didn't put up much restraint at her suggestion even though he didn't really want to leave the security of his home. This was the first time that he felt truly like himself so he enjoyed the scenery in the quick ride across the lake without complaining.  
  
Only when they were both sitting at her kitchen table with a bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum between them did she propose her proposition.  
  
"What do you say to playing twenty questions?" she smiled recklessly, "And after the question, if it's answered acceptably, we take another shot. First one to give in is the loser."  
  
"I never took you for a wino." Mort relaxed back into his chair, it was nice to know Annie hadn't outgrown her liking of alcoholic beverages, a change from when Amy used to consistently harp at him for his whiskey.  
  
"Better a wino than a whiner." She slid a shot glass over to him initiating the challenge, "You game?"  
  
"It might not be such a game depending on the questions you ask. Could get damn depressing in fact." He warned her, even if he lost all senses and Shooter took over again there was no way Annie would be harmed. She knew, or he thought she knew, too much as it was, but there wasn't any hostility towards her. John liked her almost as much as Mort did, scary a thought as that was.  
  
"I'll make sure to put the bits of glass away." She reassured him, "And I'll untie the curtains so you won't get any ideas from the rope."  
  
Mort laughed, "Good to plan ahead."  
  
"Yup, so who starts?" she poured the rum into both their glasses.  
  
"Since it was your idea, I'd say you start." Mort stared at the amber- colored liquid and contemplated giving a shit answer just to taste it's flavor.  
  
"Well alright then." She smiled, "Let the games begin."  
  
Authors Note 3: And when Ken was speaking to Mort in his office he mentioned something about a fan who "didn't know the difference between reality and that crap you write" or something to that effect. I couldn't just let that go! All the loose ends I plan to tie up, how Mort knew about the hotel/Amy and Ted. Mort and a possible three-personality-complex, flashbacks, and loads more. Stay tuned! Lol. 


	4. Frustration

Chapter 4  
  
Authors Note: Thank you to Faewen- I've heard that quote before, I love the Simpsons!! Lol. And thanks for the awesome review, interesting thinking about Mort drunk, eh? Well, just interesting thinking about him period. Hahaha. Dawnie-7: what can I say? Hehe, I'm glad that you like Annie and the alcohol scene. ;) And special thanks to AhiFlame!!  
  
Mort was delightfully happy, loose and without a care in the world he was able to answer all her questions easily and ask some of her own.  
  
"Okay, question eighteen: Why did Amy hate me so much?"  
  
Mort laughed swaying slightly in the chair, "She didn't hate you!" he put down his shot glass and blinked his eyes owlishly as she poured another.  
  
"Mort." She snorted chuckling, "She couldn't stand me!" Annie knew that she was tipsy, but Mort was further along seeing as she hadn't lost her sense of balance yet. "She warned me away from you."  
  
"Did she really." Mort had known Amy didn't approve of his friendship with Annie and toward the end of their marriage accusations had been made. "She knew better than to say anything about you though."  
  
It was a misconception many people had about them, while there might have been small crushes with attraction underneath, friendship ruled supreme.  
  
"Now my turn," Mort had been saving this question because he was wary of what her answer would be. "How're you and..."  
  
"Rafe?" Annie supplied in all seriousness now, "Not together anymore. At all."  
  
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't on the verge of snoopy dances." He hadn't liked the bastard from the beginning, from his personality to the high- handed attitude he had with people, Mort had known Annie could do better than that lunatic.  
  
"Yeah, well, I'd be lying if I said the son of a bitch was still alive."  
  
"Mind repeatin' that by me once more?" the Mort she faced showed no signs of alcohol consumption, he seemed perfectly sober and predatorily alert, not to mention that his Southern accent was back again.  
  
"Rafe's dead... I... killed him." This was the first time she had admitted it to anyone. She lowered her head not wanting to see his reaction and wondered if she'd ever see him again. "You were right all along, Mort."  
  
"About what exactly?" John knew he liked her for a reason other than looks, brains, and the fact she understood his need for privacy.  
  
"When you told me he wasn't any good and that he'd hurt me, remember? The first time we ever really argued about something." He thought he saw tears in her eyes, but then she blinked and only regret was left, "You were right."  
  
"If that cracker bastard hurt you..." there was a feral look in his deep brown eyes that both fascinated and intrigued her. She wanted nothing more than to loose herself to his embrace and comforting shoulder that had always been there. "If he weren't dead already I'd burn him and everyone he knew like a forest fire in drought season. How did he hurt you, darlin'?"  
  
She remembered all too well how he'd come after her not caring about any of the bruises or scratches he inflicted on the way. Annie was a woman who survived by knowing that she had freedom and a ready horizon that waited for her to explore it.  
  
Rafe had locked all the doors, there had been no way for her to escape. The cloying panic and terror as she tried to stay calm and keep her senses intact. She had known that the only way to get out alive was to wait for an opportune moment and then not give up.  
  
Just the thought of that humid, stale, hot air that stuck to her skin and closed her throat was enough for weeks of nightmares. What had gone so wrong? Rafe had always been a little arrogant, what man wasn't? But she would never have thought he'd be a vicious, brutal psychopath.  
  
"He- he tried to rape me, Mort." She looked up wincing, "He dragged me through his house and tried to tie my arms to his bed. I kneed him in the stomach and strangled him with the rope he would have used to gag me. Oh god, I think there's something wrong with me. Why don't I feel bad about it? Shouldn't I feel guilty?!"  
  
Mort could see the deep pain and rising hysteria in her usually calm, mischievous storm gray eyes. Moving over to sit next to her on the wooden crafted bench he pulled her into his arms.  
  
"Annie, the shithead deserved what came to'im. Why should you punish yourself over survival? You lived, didn't you? By stopping him you did the only thing you could. You fought. You fought and you won."  
  
"But-"  
  
"No." he said gently, "It only matters if you make it matter. I know, sounds cruel don't it. Like killin' a dog too lame and blind to function properly, but it's got t'be done."  
  
"I've always wanted to tell you this, Mort." She took a deep breath and met his eyes steadily, this time he noticed their brightness and knew she was seconds away from letting the tears fall. In all the years they had been friends he had never seen Annie cry, she didn't give into sadness rather focusing all her energy on red-hot anger. "I-"and with that Mort kissed her.  
  
_Love you_, she thought, but the words were lost in the intensity of his kiss. There was the taste of rum, a faint smell of cigarette smoke, and the feeling of him pressed against her to preoccupy her mind from letting her speak.  
  
Neither were aware that they were standing and moving aimlessly around the room so wholly focused were they on one another. Her back touched a wall, he bumped into the table, she knocked over a plastic jar, but nothing caught their attention until they tripped over her coffee table.  
  
After falling backwards Annie was glad she had opted to buy a large, thick, soft rug for when she watched television and wanted to lay on something other than her couch.  
  
The room wasn't very large yet because it was attached to her kitchen it seemed much more spacious. The house was two stories, her bedroom, guest room, and where she developed her pictures, the darkroom, was on the second floor. Only the darkroom was used, she most often fell asleep on the sofa while watching television or reading.  
  
She didn't like the feeling of closure having a bedroom gave her. Preferring all doors to remain opened in her life having a room delegated just for sleeping in seemed... boring.  
  
"Makes things easier, eh?" she smiled at him from where she lay on the floor. Mort had rolled to his side as soon as they fell to avoid hurting her and was now stretched out next to her.  
  
It was about a year and six months since Mort last slept with anyone, Amy and he had slept separately for the most part of a year. After the miscarriage he left her alone for fear of hurting her, but apparently she had found a replacement in good ol' Teddy.  
  
He couldn't deny that he wanted Annie with an intensity that made breathing difficult. And even though neither John nor Mort realized it, they had both merged as one person again... at least for the moment.  
  
Annie too was fighting for self-control, Mort was stroking her hair from root to tip all the while maintaining eye-contact. She needed him to stop, at least for a minute so she could find her bearings again, either that or move... preferably lower.  
  
"Mort?" she asked not sure of what she was asking for.  
  
"I know." He leaned in and kissed her again rising to lean on his forearm as he did so. Annie did something she had always dreamed of doing. She ran her hand through his hair, the dirty blonde, usually left to fall across his forehead as it would. It was as soft as she thought it would be, Mort showed his approval by deepening the kiss until her pulse raced and a moan rose in her throat.  
  
He pulled off the outer layer of the shirt he wore no longer feeling anything resembling the alcoholic haze he'd been in before. Now he only had his gray t-shirt on and he forced his mind away from her and focused instead on the air-conditioning that ran through the room.  
  
Annie mistook the slight tremor that ran through him as pain instead of desire, he wanted to be rid of all the barriers that separated him. She pushed him down to the carpet and shook her hair loose so that it cascaded down her back instead of over her shoulders.  
  
Straddling his hips they both gasped at the feeling, Mort began to see white-flecked stars form in front of his eyes. Even more so when she resumed from where he'd left off.  
  
"Wait." He gasped breathlessly, "This isn't right, the first time we're together I want you to be on a bed with white silk sheets. Rose petals everywhere, utter perfection..."  
  
"Have I ever told you how glad I am that you're a writer?" she grinned, her lips chapped and still tingling. "And so romantic."  
  
"No, never been told that." She lifted her hips and he restrained a groan damning himself for a fool. "But first time for everything, right?"  
  
"Oh yeah." She winked retrieving his shirt from the couch where he had thrown it. "But I hear tell that third time's the charm."  
  
"Is that so. And why three, prey tell." He stood and wondered if he'd ever be able to walk again.  
  
"First time? Not good. Second time, well lets just say that I'm glad I was able to stop him. So, third time? After that?" she licked her lips and Mort contemplated praying.  
  
He realized what she'd just admitted it she was twenty-five years old and she hadn't ever- "I personally guarantee that it'll be better." He couldn't resist anymore, hell might be waiting for him but at least he'd die happily. Mort grabbed one side of his shirt and pulled her closer to him. "You're damn addictive, Annie."  
  
"Glad to hear it." She replied kissing him back, "But I can promise you won't need group therapy."  
  
Mort returned to very late that night, he was thankful that it was cold out... saved him extra money for the water bill. Collapsing on the couch he couldn't say that he got any more sleep than any other night, but at least this time his mind was on another, more enjoyable, subject.  
  
There was also the promise of seeing her first thing in the morning. John Shooter wasn't heard from again that night so deeply buried was he in Mort's mind. She was to meet him here in the morning, he wanted to wake up early because he had some shopping to do.

Authors Note 2: Im really glad on how fast this is progressing. I think Annie's a cool character, and Mort... well thats self-explanatory. hahaha. Anyway, I dont know how well i write smut, i think thats what its called. Its interesting to see what characters do, and not do for that matter. Mort's such a gentleman, hehehe.


	5. College memories and Regrets

Chapter 5   
Authors Note: Thank you to all the reviewers, especially Dawnie-7! Truly loyal reviewer there you have my undying appreciation. :D :D. It's just kinda funny though that in a lot of my characters, whether I want them too or not, there's an awful lot of my own personality there. I can't make them weak, crying, or unwilling to face the world. That's why I make such a horrible Mary-Sue writer, and I mean that in the bad way. Mary-Sues are sometimes needed and I have a hard time writing them. Anyway, on to the story now and enough of my inane rambling. Lol.  
  
Annie too was having trouble getting to sleep. Mort had left, albeit reluctantly, only three hours ago. Now, because it was hopeless to try and think of anything else her mind turned to Mort. It seemed a little unreal to her that now he was more than just a friend.  
  
He had a way of talking to people, when he chose to talk them at all, in that he stared into their eyes and paid them full attention, something not many men did. His mind never wandered in the middle of a conversation and he almost always made time for someone who was hurting.  
  
Even after he had moved out of Amy's house and she continued to call him at the cabin, Mort had been nothing but civil when speaking to her. He only occasionally lost his temper with her, but it seemed as though sometimes Amy regretted what had been done and wanted Mort back.  
  
How a woman could go to another man when she had Mort was beyond Annie's frame of comprehension. It was inconceivable to her even when Amy protested him speaking to Annie so consistently but Mort was loath to break their friendship, that's just the kind of person he was.  
  
Alright, there was no way she was getting back to sleep now so throwing on a robe she headed towards the kitchen. There was nothing on television the tvguide ™ confirmed that. Only biographies, early morning news, and talk shows graced programming.  
  
She picked up her copy of 'Organ Grinders Boy' it was one of the most chilling books Mort had written. The ending came as a complete shock, no one had suspected the nice old man, Jon Aleic, who always frequented the local café of being the murderer. He had filled in for the previous organ man whom everyone assumed was the killer. Jon stalked his victims from the loft where the organ was kept and carved his victims names on the side.  
  
It was always fun to read, write, and even watch, Mort's writing. She was one of the few people whom Mort allowed near him when he wrote. He mumbled to himself, cursed at the screen, spoke like different characters, and acted out different scenes when he couldn't imagine them all together in context.  
  
The southern accent was new, Annie hadn't heard him continue to speak differently for more than an hour after he shut down the computer or closed the notebook.  
  
He had gone through such a change from the last time she'd seen him. Considering that it had only been a couple of weeks from their hug good-bye and his promise to write at least one good coherent paragraph, she supposed that it was good he had finally gotten over Amy and the betrayal.  
  
Thinking about it, Mort hadn't really written anything from the moment he had walked in on Amy and Ted... together, up until a few days after they left. He would just sit in front of the screen playing with a metal slinky, or a plastic gold-starred green ball to try and get ideas to circulate.  
  
It was true that he kept the phone unplugged a lot, but at least once a week he would call to talk with her. Late night conversations where feelings, Mort's about the whole divorce situation and her over the pictures and her career, were shared. Those types of conversations were when she heard of Amy's cheating and his one and only run in with plagiarism.  
  
Mort sighed heavily and nursed a can of Mountain Dew while sitting on his porch. He loved the country just because of it's simplicity. The wind hissed through the trees, cicadas sung in the branches, and all was peaceful and in tune with the atmospheres balance. Not like in the city where small details were devoured in its rushing, unceasing spirit.  
  
It had been after he paid Byron Ginsuac nine thousand dollars for two stolen ideas that he had decided the city just wasn't for him anymore. Mort hadn't realized that the ten pages in his book were based on an idea already used in a movie. That had been a Jack Daniels writing night, nothing but him, an empty room except for his computer and a good bottle of Number 07 whiskey.  
  
Byron had been a greedy shithead, but since Mort had been so angry with himself he had willingly paid every dollar. He had never done anything like that before nor would he ever again. Even in school, for the assignments he actually did, never had they been anyone else's ideas.  
  
Mort had never been able to conform to the 'educational standard' of writing. Five paragraphs and the necessary use of 'in conclusion' at the end had never appealed to him.  
  
Mort had always prided himself on his ability to bullshit, keep any lies straight, and even when he was caught he could find a loophole out. To finally close himself in a corner, with the whole world to see was a sore point with Amy. That was one of the things she brought up a lot to try and hurt him, not that it did.  
  
He logged onto his computer willing away all the reminiscing and focusing on Annie instead. He found the online shipping company and ordered two- dozen roses, a box of imported chocolate truffles, and a few other items of necessity.  
  
She had never enjoyed sex before and while it bothered him that the men she dated were such assholes, he was glad to have been the first. He wouldn't use her, abuse her, or cast her aside.  
  
He remembered her raging the following morning from when she lost her virginity. They had both been in college, it was amazing to him that he'd ever been accepted, and the phone had rung at four o'clock in the morning. He had listened as she raged against some man named Luke who hadn't had the decency to initiate her through the first time.  
  
That's the kind of friendship they had, anything and everything could be spoken of, and Mort had been ready to go down to Montclair and beat the shit out of Luke for it. When she had calmed down a little she swore to him that she was fine but would never trust just a pretty face and promises again.  
  
She hadn't from then on out, he had still seen the reckless and impulsive behavior he had always associated with her, but a kind of wariness with men she wasn't well acquainted with.  
  
That's why he hadn't voiced any real concerns over Rafe until the last minute. Annie and he argued, for the first time ever, at least seriously taken. She swore that he was to be trusted not listening to Mort's objections. He let her leave to go and meet him that night.  
  
They eventually had made up and Mort never breached the subject again. Last he heard was that they were together a month with Rafe playing the gentleman card. Mort wondered if that was only because they were hardly ever just seen alone.  
  
Annie's friend Meg hung around with them a lot so their alone time was often postponed. Maybe Rafe had just been waiting for the most opportune moment to take what he had been stalking for so long.  
  
Mort fell asleep at his computer, the little onscreen clock reading 4:02. Annie finished the book around 5:34 and drifted off with it still in her hand. Dreaming happy dreams they both jolted awake when their mental alarm clocks went off. It was finally time for what they had anticipated all night long.  
  
Breakfast.  
  
Authors Note 2: I know that this was mostly an informational chapter, but I didn't know how else to do it. Besides it's nighttime and they both wanted one another, hahaha, so to take their minds off that they would think. Albeit about the other, but I think the point came across alright. 


	6. Delivery

Broken Windows Equal Shattered Glass

Chapter 6

A knock on the door drew both Annie and Mort's attention. The sheer white material of the curtains showed the silhouette of a tan-delivery truck. It came as a surprise to him that they'd bother to deliver anything to him anymore.

"He must be new." Annie remarked watching the way the man outside the door was shifting his weight from foot to foot as if getting ready to flee.

"No, I don't think so." Mort opened the door and had a small brown box nearly shoved into his hands, "Hello, Tony."

"Um, him Mr. Rainey." Tony replied, "Er, there's a delivery for you. Could you, um, sign here for me?"

Mort took the receipt and signed the board specifying that he had received the package.

"That all?" Mort asked when Tony made no move to leave.

"Erm, yes. One more thing…"

"Yes, right" Mort gave him a five-dollar tip, way more than anyone else who usually didn't even bother.

"Thank you, Mr. Rainey." The boy looked even guiltier, "But I'm not going to be able to make any more deliveries up here."

"Going off to college at last?" Annie congratulated him, "Bet you're looking forward to getting out of here."

"Um, no, my boss says that I can't. Come back here, that is. He thinks…" he couldn't meet Mort's eyes anymore, "He just has doubts and…"

"I understand," said Mort putting Tony at ease, "It doesn't matter, only what _you_ believe does."

"_I_ don't think you did it." Tony said heatedly, "I tried tellin' him that, but he wouldn't listen. Never mind, Mr. Rainey, if you have a delivery I'll drive it up here myself in my own car so the can't say anything." He looked extremely proud of himself for thinking of the idea, Annie could tell there was more than a little hero-worship going on.

"Much appreciated," Mort took out two twenties, "That's for gas, but don't get into any trouble on my account. I can drive down and pick anything up easily enough.

"I know," Tony grinned, "But I owe you, half of my college fund came from you."

"How much more do you need?" Annie inquired.

"Couple thousand," he shrugged, "Another couple months and I'm off to York University."

"Oh, and Tony?" Annie had almost forgotten, "Make sure the post-office knows I'm back and they don't have to hold anything for me.'"

"Will do." He and the tan truck disappeared around the bend.

"Such a good kid." Annie remarked pouring them both another cup of coffee.

"He is." Mort agreed, "He'd have been in college before now should some more people willingly opened their wallets."

"So you not only tip, but you make up for all of them." Yet Annie knew that she was just as bad as Mort. She always made sure to order something, to give Tony a much deserved bonus, right before the holidays.

Mort took a knife from the drawer and sliced through the tape that held the box shut. Inside were two copies of his newest book, 'Reaping Harvest.' 'Sowing Season' had a scythe and a shovel leaning against the side of the cover, next to it was a packet of seeds. This one had green corn stalks arranged so that they were spread in a circle with the title in the middle.

"Is that it?" Annie asked excitedly, "That's the book?"

"Yup, published and set to hit stands in a week." He handed one to her, "To add to the collection, eh?"

It was a long-standing tradition between them, Annie had a copy of every single one of his books. Mort had autographed the first five at her request, but the rest of them had a dedication with her name included. He had always kept one and gave the other to her. If she was away taking pictures she would come home and find one in her mailbox.

She opened the cover and read: 'To Annie: my closest friend and listening ear, who never closes the chip bag or moves my pillows.'

He had made it personal, as he always did, something for the readers to understand but then he added something at the end that only she would comprehend. The chip bag line referred to the way he ate Doritos.

It had been a form of long-standing annoyance to him when Amy would come around to clean up after him. He had a way of folding down the Doritos bag so that he never had to reopen it, the top stayed how he left it so all he had to do was reach inside.

Amy had protested saying that all sorts of bugs could get in and they'd get stale. Relaying that to her on the phone he had laughed that he liked them stale, soggy, broken up, or in crumbs. If a bug got in he wouldn't notice because the chips were crunchy anyway.

If one got in, hell, he said, they had to eat too didn't they? He had been eating them that way for thirty years and wasn't about to stop now.

As to the pillows thing, she remembered being over once when Mrs. Garvey came to clean. Mort had gone downstairs to get another Mountain Dew and she heard him groan all the way from upstairs in his study.

She went downstairs to see what had happened, thinking that he had hurt himself or something she was surprised to see him throwing pillows all over the room. When she asked what he was doing he had replied that she moved his pillows again after he specifically said she wouldn't need to waste her time with any of the furniture.

Annie had barely stopped him from burning the pillows in the fire-place, it had been a near thing and only when she stood in front of the couch with the pillows behind her back, to keep him from killing them, did he back down.

"I love it, thank you so much!" she kissed him, which turned into a deeper kiss with the hazelnut coffee taste shared between them.

"Well… wow." He smiled when she leaned back again so they could catch their breath.

"Yeah, wow covers a lot." She laughed shakily.

"Makes me want to start writing another book if that's the appreciation I'll get."

"Speaking of." she looked towards the balcony, "_Have_ you written anything else lately?"

"No, I've been a little… preoccupied."

There was another banging at the door but neither Mort nor Annie felt the immediate urge to answer it. Both restrained from laughing, it had turned into a game, the first one to look away lost.

The knocking was more insistent this time, whomever was behind the white curtains didn't like being kept on hold. "Mr. Rainey? I know you're in there, open up." Neither one of them lost because they looked to the door at the same time.

"What's the sheriff doing here?" he muttered wiping his hands on a dishcloth before opening the door. "I've gone to New London, haven't stepped into that town since he asked me to stay away."

"Hello, Mort." The sheriff pronounced the last 't' of his name with extra emphasis.

"Hi, pleasant day for a stroll?" he paused, "Or is there some other rule you'd like me to acquiesce too."

"No, we need you to come on down to the lake. There's a matter of some… importance we'd like you to see."

"What is it?" Annie asked suspiciously, she didn't like the malevolent glee on DAve's face, this was what he had been waiting for and now it looked as if he had been let loose in a candy store with unlimited money to spend.

"I thought we told you-" with narrowed eyes he looked back towards Mort, "Shall I escort you or would you prefer to use your own methods of transportation."

"No, it's taken care of." Annie went over to stand next to Mort, "Your car doesn't have enough room to sit three people."

"You don't have to-"

"She says she wants to come along." Mort said rather forcefully, "I'll drive her there."

"Just get there in one piece." The car started and revved out of Mort's driveway.

"Well, he's in a good mood." Annie remarked sarcastically wondering why everything seemed to have gone to hell in a hand-basket.

"Did you really want to go or were you playing avenging warrioress?"

"Do you even have to ask?" she walked to where he kept the keys hung on a peg and threw him the set for the car. "Mort, there's something I need to ask you."

"Did I kill them?" Mort replied tonelessly, "I might have, I think I did, yes."

"And this is what Dave wants to talk to you about?"

"I can only imagine so, yeah."

Mort started the engine once she had settled herself in and tried to keep his eyes on the road. She still hadn't said anything and he wondered if once the car started if she wouldn't start running and not look back.

"Why, if you did, kill them? Amy, Ted, Tom, Ken?"

"And maybe Chico."

"But did you?"

"What do you think?" he asked stomach clenching in apprehension.

"I think that if you did there was a reason, you wouldn't have done it out of cold blood. Not you. So I'm asking you, as your best friend, who won't judge or stop being said friend, did you kill them?"

"Yes." There was no point dancing around it anymore, he had killed them and given a second chance probably would again.

"Thank you." She said quietly.

"For what?'

"Trusting me enough to tell me the truth."

Authors Note: I don't know what her reaction should be, should it have been something more along the horrified panic? I don't think Annie's that type of person though, one way or the other she wouldn't have abandoned Mort considering she's had her past dealings with murder.

Authors Note 2: Besides, shouldn't their friendship be that strong if even John doesn't want her dead? That has to count for something…


	7. Ghosts from the past

Chapter 7

The apprehension grew as they got out of the car to see a tow truck and several people in diving suits climbing out of the lake. It got even worse when the sheriff looked as if Christmas had come five months early.

"Ah, glad to see you could make it, Mort." Dave grinned, a good representation of a snake right before it swallows it's prey.

"We were right behind you." Annie pointed out trying not to notice the remains of a car that had presumably been pulled out of the lake.

"Yes, well, be that as it may... do you happen to recognize this vehicle?" he looked intensely at Mort

"I do, yes, Dave." Mort sighed as he surveyed the truck that formerly had belonged to Ted Greenleaf. More importantly was the fact John remembered it, Mort was a little surprised that there wasn't any satisfaction or happiness upon seeing the wrecked pick-up.

"Any idea of how that got there?"

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute." Annie said before Mort could think up an answer, "Are you allowed to ask questions like that? Is he?" she addressed another officer in blue.

"Yes, he is, Annie." The second officer couldn't have been a day older than twenty, "It's within his jurisdiction to ask any question he wants concerning the crime scene."

"And you, Morton Rainey, haven't answered my question yet."

"First off, could we possibly stick with Mort? You've been calling me that since I was five why bother changing now?" he took a deep breath, "And I imagine someone, or possibly Ted himself, lost control of the truck and sent it careening off the cliff."

"Would you happen to know that somebody?" Dave continued watching closely for any signs of panic.

-Oh you know me very well, don't you, Mr. Rainey. But I'd imagine these fine folk here wouldn't want an introduction. Do y'need me t'take care of things here?-

"Umm..." Mort tried to shut off the southern drawl in his mind not realizing he'd spoken aloud.

"Beg pardon? Didn't catch that."

Mort was extremely grateful for Dave's hearing impairment, "No, I didn't videotape any of this so I wouldn't know."

-You can't close me out forever, you know that. You tried too before. You squirmed around an awful lot, but I won. I have won. Won't do you no good to keep me waiting. We'll talk more later.-

"It's the funniest thing. Floating on top of the truck, inside near Tom's body, was a watch that looks a lot like the one you wear. Do you have that on now, Mort?"

"I didn't put it on this morning, I woke up, had breakfast with Annie, and then you knocked on my door and _asked_ me to come down here. You see, I didn't even have time to put on my hat."

"Tom might have been a little addled, but I don't believe he would have knowingly sent the truck off a cliff!" Dave insisted. "You've avoided the police, haven't stopped by in a long time-"

"I have," Mort objected, "During the whole John Shooter incident."

"John who?" Dave looked confused and Mort couldn't help feeling exasperated. What were they all doing here if the sheriff of the town didn't know how it all started?

"Shooter. John Shooter. Remember I came to you awhile back and said that I had some kind of crazy person after me?"

"No, no, doesn't ring a bell..."

"He killed my dog, mister, put a screwdriver through his head! You told me that it didn't break any laws and that I should give you a detailed description."

"I don't recall- anyhow, doesn't matter, so your statement is that the man in the backseat was questioning Tom and the car went crashing off the cliff."

"I don't know if it went _crashing off a cliff_, but it seems to be a pretty fair assumption, don't you think? How else would the truck be in such bad condition and him dead?"

"It _does_ make sense." Annie sighed wrapping an arm around Mort's waist to prove that he wasn't along in all this. "You have to see the possibility of that scenario happening. How many times did Tom bring the truck in for repairs?"

"Alright." Dave looked highly disappointed, "This is hardly over, just want to let you know that."

"Thanks," Annie steered them towards the car and added under her breath, "Something to look forward too." She took the keys from his pocket and opened the drivers side. "I think I should drive, no?"

"Yeah, go ahead." He'd made it through, they didn't have any further leads and he wasn't so high on the suspect list now. At least he hoped he wasn't, there would be no clearing of the slate, but at least Dave wasn't so sure of himself.

"Mort? How _did_ he die?" she asked once they were alone and able to talk freely.

"I, no it wasn't me, you have to believe me on that. _I_ didn't kill him, it wasn't me. John Shooter, who turns out to be a _part_ of me, killed him. He told them to pull over by the side of the road and murdered him there."

"A part of you?" she rephrashed when she saw the hopeless expression on his face, "I believe you, okay? I just stood up for you, didn't I? Calm down, think about it for a minute. Have you ever considered schizophrenia?"

"Schizophrenia?" he laughed nervously, "The multiple personality disorder? Yeah, it occurred to me, but I didn't follow up on it. It just wasn't something I thought could happen to me."

She pulled the car over to the side wanting to be able to look him in the eyes when she spoke to him. This was a serious topic, and though she knew it could be dangerous, she trusted him completely.

"You said you killed Ken Karsch too, where was he buried?"

"He was- he should have been in the truck. I don't know, maybe-" Mort looked utterly confused and Annie decided to take a different tactic.

"I'll ask you simple yes or no questions, okay? Simple. Take a breath and trust me."

"I do trust you. More than anyone else."

"Good." She did the equivalent of a deep intake of air and forged on ahead, "Shooter is a Southern gentleman?"

"Yes."

"He is the character from Sowing Season? Todd Downey."

"Yes." His accent wavered slightly and she fought to keep her reaction from showing.

"There were times when you woke up disoriented and not knowing precisely why certain things were in different places from when you last saw them?"

"Not a lot, but sometimes, yeah."

"Your dreams resembled real life and you often felt déjà vu?"

"He knew what he was doing, missus. He knew what he was doing perfectly. He just lacked the strength to do it himself, that's what he needed me for. I did what he couldn't."

"John?" she whispered oddly calm despite the circumstances.

"The southern gentleman, I like that. I've always liked you, you trusted me when no one else wanted too. I couldn't hurt you, Annie, not even if I wanted too. You mean too much to him, not like that city slicker he married."

"Amy? You mean Amy, right?"

"That's her. She didn't care about him, maybe in the beginning, but she was empty. Not what he needed, so I fixed things just like I've always fixed things for'I'm."

"So _you_ killed Tom and Amy. Mort didn't have anything to do with that."

"Killed Ted too, couldn't have them getting in the way of our business. Mr. Rainey stole my story and I got him to republish it for me."

"Stole your story?" she could hear the southern accent again and the twinge of anger in his voice when he mentioned it.

"Sowing Season, he stole it from me and couldn't prove that it was his. He paid me back for plagerizing the only way he could. Giving me what I wanted, he struggled for awhile, but I showed him that there wasn't any use."

"I just spoke to him though, that was Mort..."

"Only because I let him." John nodded sadly, "He can't be trusted again, he'll go after some city girl again and make a mess of things. Mr. Rainey, he couldn't write or move on with his life after the divorce. I saved him from that and I wouldn't give him the chance to do it again."

"What proof did he need to show you? How did you prove to him that it was all a lie?"

"He mentioned some kind of magazine, there isn't such a publication, he looked. The deadline passed and he didn't come up with it. I'm sorry, missus, but right is right and fair is fair. I gave him a chance."

Comprehension dawned, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, she had it at home. The June 1995 edition on page eighty-three. She remembered it because they read it together over the phone when it was first published. If that was the proof, she had read about schizophrenia before, sometimes the person suffering from the mind disorder needed a jolt to get them back on track again.

Mort needed to find that jolt and when he did Shooter would be banished back to the deep recesses of his conscious mind. She would find the magazine and help him get the ground back beneath his feet.

It still didn't explain about Mort's agent, what had happened with him? There were so many missing pieces to this puzzle...

"Annie?" her eyes widened when she heard Mort say her name as if he were drowning, "Annie, help me."


	8. Karsch revisited

Chapter 8

Annie rummaged around the boxes in her closet trying to find the magazine. She knew it was here somewhere because she hadn't thrown anything out, at least things that referred to Mort.

Keeping busy was her way to think things over, and there was a lot to be considering. The appointment for the discussion over her pictures wasn't for another few days. Which was good because it gave her time to help Mort, the photography company gave her a week and a half after her last assignment to unwind from all the stress.

Then after her pictures were evaluated they would send her somewhere else, maybe this time she'd be able to pick where she would go. That was her dream one day to leave all the weddings and christenings behind and go find something people would be interested in.

Mort understood what that was like and had given her much needed pep talks every now and then when it all felt useless. She had come so close to quitting and finding another career to pursue, but Mort had stood up for her dream and refused to let her back out.

When it seemed she'd go mad from all the pictures of banquets and flower arrangements, Mort had been there to renew her images of Scotland, London, and all the far-off places she had yet to get too.

He had always been sure of what he wanted in life, there was no going around and around a problem. He chose one option and went with it no regrets afterwards. It was something she had always admired in him, his ability to forge on through life without looking back.

The only time she had seen that falter was when Amy had filed for divorce. She had hated Amy for that, Annie had met her a few times over the course of their ten year marriage.

She knew that Amy didn't like her, or even approve of their friendship. Annie had tried to refrain from calling him for awhile because she didn't want to make things worse than they were.

Mort had called her two days later and waved away all of her protesting saying that he didn't give a good goddamn what Amy thought on this matter because he wasn't a puppy to be led around.

Amy had confronted her once and said that she didn't want her around Mort anymore. That was a few days after Mort's phone-call, which made Annie all the more willing to be there for him.

As horrible as Amy was towards him she couldn't imagine Mort killing her over it. In fact, he had taken the whole thing remarkably well doing what she'd imagine any man would do after finding out his wife had cheated on him.

He got a little drunk, locked himself away, and tried to forget that there were still papers to be signed and property to go through. Annie had felt horrible about leaving for Europe, but Mort had been adamant on her leaving.

She had never understood what Amy meant when she said Mort was 'gone inside his head.' He was a writer, of course he'd immerse himself in his work. She had done that a few times herself, as a photographer she'd been oblivious to all that went on around her except for what she was focused on.

A box overturned, she sighed as she picked up the pictures. "Ken Karsch." She muttered as she put the pictures back into their place. These were the pictures from Ken's funeral a few months ago. It had been shocking, no one would have imagined the tough-looking literary agent to collapse from a heart attack.

She looked up horrified, Mort had said that he killed Ken. He had meant recently, what did he mean? She had the pictures of Ken's funeral right in front of her, there was no way John could have killed him!

"Some women don't know a good thing when they got it. They don't know they got the whole world right in front of their nose."  
"Her sticky weird fingers on my privacy."

He was wondering through a smoky room of mirrors, whenever he turned he saw someone that he knew on the mirror. Searching, not able to rest until he found the right one. He saw Mrs. Garvey and her voice reverberated through the corridors.

There was no air, he was suffocating slowly, Mort ran from the high maniacal laughter that followed him wherever he went.

"He was hired to do this. Somebody with a grudge against you hired a tough guy to rattle you... scare you to death..." Mort came face to face with Ken Karsch bleeding and empty eyed. He turned around trying to stay conscious and saw another Ken reflected in the ceiling mirror. This time he was in a black coffin and it was being lowered into the ground.

He knew it was Ken because he could see into the casket and saw the cloth over his face. "... But he gets the wrong guy. Things get out of control..." Mort stumbled back against another mirror and heard an odd ringing laughter, low and husky voiced he knew it belonged to his former literary agent.

"... They go further than they're supposed too." Mort tripped over some unseen object on the floor and his head hit the ground as he fell. He was staring up at the mirrored ceiling where a very dead Chico stared at him through sightless eyes.

"No," he scrambled to his feet and rammed his fist against one of the mirrors. It didn't break or shatter as he expected it too.

"Dead dogs... burnt down houses..." he saw himself with the champagne bottle and the gasoline. He wore the black hat and a stolid look on his face.

"Now he can't call him off." The laughter faded away and Mort saw blood on his hands. It dripped slowly onto the floor and then he watched in horror as it rolled slowly towards the mirrors.

It was reflected in all the mirrors around him and realized that it was covering the floor of the room and slowly rising. He ran the perimeter of the room trying desperately to find a way out. It had reached the hem of his pants and he couldn't move.

"John!" he saw Shooter standing above the pool of red on the floor and knew with abject fear that John was going to stay and watch him die.

"I'd take care of myself, Mr. Rainey, because if things turn out differently... I suppose I _am_ crazy. And that kinda crazy man... has no reason or excuse to live."

"Wait! No!" the blood had reached his knees now and he struggled to keep from falling. John was gone and this was the end.

"Mort? Mort!" he dimly heard someone calling his name, the mirrors flashed eerily before fading. "Damnit, Mort, wake up!" it was the desperation in that voice which finally woke him.

Expecting to still be mired in the crimson pool of blood he struggled and fell onto something warm and very feminine.

"Hi." He saw Annie's shocked violet eyes widen in surprise and felt the insane urge to say something. Surely he could have done better than 'hi.'

"Hello." She laughed at how cute he looked with the shadow of a beard and his tousled blonde-brown hair in hopeless disarray.

"What a way to wake up." He was still sprawled on top of her, but he had shifted slightly so that most of his weight was rested on his side.

"Don't start anything you're not going to finish." She warned before he kissed her. His heartbeat pulsed against hers through the thin layers of their shirts, and she felt light-headed when her senses skyrocketed.

Cigarettes, a smoky wood-burning smell from all the logs he split, and traces of cologne hastily administered were on his clothes.

"That finished quite nicely, don't you think?" he grinned as he used the couch as leverage to stand. He'd give himself a few minutes before actually walking somewhere however easy it might sound. Annie solved the dilemma by going into the kitchen, she returned with two Mountain Dews and a bag of Doritos.

"Improving, much improving." She smiled after taking a long drink of soda, "But the nightmares haven't stopped yet, hmm? Do you remember what this one was about?"

"Unfortunately, but I'd really rather not talk about it, you know? Later I'll tell you anything you want to know, right now?" he shook his head and grabbed a handful of Doritos.

"Alright, fine by me. Have you considered going to see a doctor about this trouble you have sleeping?"

"No. I don't like doctors, waste of time, they tell you what you already know and charge you for it." He looked sideways at her, "Besides, now that you're here I don't have to worry about sleeping."

"Why, Mort." She managed to look both innocent and mischievous, "What're you insinuating?"

"Nothing, nothing," he sighed, "Just following the rules of courtship and wooing to win a fair lady's heart."

"There's a rulebook?"

"Course." He looked as if it were insane of her not to know, "But it's a secret only the men know because ladies run us ragged on everything else."

"Is that so." She smiled at the thought of them passing on a book with codes and tips for dating women.

"Yup." Mort cleaned his glasses on his shirt matter-of-factly, "I learned all I could and passed it on to the next poor guy I saw on the street."

"Nice of you."

"Had to keep the chain going." He shrugged finishing off the Mountain Dew.

"You know?" she said taking something out of her purse and putting them on the table, "I have something to show you."

"Your pictures?" he asked interestedly picking up the closest one then dropping it as he stared at a mahogany coffin being lowered into the ground. White flowers rested on top, green grass surrounded the rectangular cavity in which the casket was being let down into.

"Ken." He whispered turning pale, as if drowning he grasped at the other pictures and flipped through them. The pictures were dated a year ago, which meant that Ken hadn't been around for that long a period of time. "where did you get these?"

"I took them, Mort." She said carefully, "You were there, see?" she picked up one towards the end. Mort was wearing a black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt underneath, no hat on his head, but glasses firmly in place.

"But- I killed him?" the last was said in form of a question, his eyes were confused as he flipped through the remaining photographs.

"He died of natural causes. A heart attack in a hotel room one night, the company found him the next morning when he didn't answer his cell phone. You told me about it, Mort. I went to the funeral, sat with you at the reception."

"Then it's not true. I didn't- but, he was there. Wasn't he there?" he turned to look at Annie pleading with her to tell him he wasn't crazy.

"He wasn't in the truck when they pulled it out of the lake. Only Tom was, and the townspeople mentioned him, but I assume that it's just rumors going around from you talking with the sheriff. Besides, Isabelle said that you mentioned him a few weeks ago coinciding with Amy and Ted's death..."

"Now why did you go and do a thing like that, missus?" John Shooter wasn't happy, not at all. This was a link, albeit a small one, but she could bring the whole works down if she kept meddling. "This," he splayed a hand across the pictures, "Wasn't necessary. What's right is right, and this isn't playing fair."

"Why not?" Annie asked calmly so as not to get him angry, "Bringing evidence forward to try to help him? Why can't I help him, John? You're still in control, he's gone now, isn't he? Why can't I help bring a little normality back to his chaotic life?"

"Because I-"he sighed deeply and stared at her for a long while, "There _is_ no Mort Rainey, it's useless trying to bring back something that's not real. He was a dream, a long overdue fantasy that I finally got control of."

"John, Mr. Shooter," she noticed the pleased glint cross his eyes, "He's lost, confused, let me help him. I'll stay within the perimeters you set, but when he comes back again... will you?" she had to appeal to the side of him that needed control. She knew that Mort was strong enough to fight, and the whole lost and weak side she was portraying him as helped her cause.

"You can do whatever you want, missus, it's a lost cause, I done told you that." He pulled out a pack of Pall Mall's and offered her one. She shook her head, this wasn't the brand she smoked _when_ she lit up, "What you don't understand is, if we _do_ start to fight... it's not going to end until one or the other of us is dead. You know what that means, right? You're Mr. Rainey is going to loose, then there'll be nothing left. I'll be in here all alone."

"Annie, get out." Mort gasped still holding the lit cigarette. He stared at it and put it out against the wood of the table, "He's going to kill you if you don't."

"He'll _try_ to kill me." She corrected, "I've gone up against greater things than this, _you_ try making your way into the only Starbucks in Europe at seven in the morning. Lives are lost, people are hurt... _that's_ a challenge. This? Not a problem."

"Annie-"

"I don't want to hear it, Mort." This was unlike any form of schizophrenia she'd ever heard of, Mort and John were obviously two different people, but they seemed aware of the other and spoke of fighting to the death. She knew that her life was in the gamble now too, but Mort meant more to her than escaping to let him eventually be consumed by Shooter. "I'm not leaving you, if you lock the doors I'll climb through the window. Lock them and I'll camp out in the shed."

Her eyes flashed with a light of savagery, "I- I love you, Mort." Hearing the break in her voice she did the only thing she could think of. She kissed him.


End file.
